


beyond this place of wrath and tears

by curious_cat



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Suicide mention, Temporary Character Death, but they don't stay dead bc time travel, make of that what you will, temporary major character death, the deaths of major characters are discussed in some detail
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21557269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curious_cat/pseuds/curious_cat
Summary: Decades after they have both completed successful skating careers, Yuuri and Viktor are pulled back in time to the Sochi Grand Prix Final. Could this be the second chance they both longed for?
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 36
Kudos: 134





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title is from the poem "Invictus" by William Ernest Henry

Yuuri gazed out the window, watching cherry blossoms float past. His hand was in Viktor’s, and they sat in the backseat of the family’s old sedan precisely so that they could cuddle. Mari tended to make fun of them for it, but today she was concentrating on the road, executing a difficult turn around a car that changed its mind midway through the intersection. 

They were all a bit subdued. It was a bittersweet day, both the anniversary of Viktor’s arrival in Hasetsu thirty years ago and the fifteenth anniversary of an unprecedented typhoon that had devastated the town and their family both. In the faint reflection of himself in the window, Yuuri briefly saw the face of his father, who had been among those who died. He curled his fingers tighter around Viktor’s. Viktor, probably also remembering their dead, squeezed back. Yuuri heard him take a breath to speak, but before the words were out there was a screech of tires, shattering glass, and they were thrown backwards with enormous force. 

Unimaginable pain bloomed from the base of Yuuri’s spine and his head, meeting somewhere in his chest. He opened his mouth to scream, but there was no sound. Viktor’s hand had been ripped from his, and that seemed somehow a worse pain than whatever was tearing his chest apart. Yuuri’s awareness faded into a white blankness. 

–

Yuuri was laying on wet pavement, and lights flashed around him. He groaned and placed his hand palm down on the ground. It was cold, and he marveled at the layer of ice over it. His whole body ached, and the chill from the ground wasn’t helping. He started to sit up, blinking at the lights around him. 

“Hey, what are you, fucking crazy?” a voice shouted at him in Russian. 

Yuuri rubbed his eyes. A moment ago he had been in Japan, surely. Why Russian? But his automatic social functions, honed by years of travel, took over and he was already responding in the same language. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened, uh, where…” he finally got a proper look at his surroundings. The voice belonged to an angry man in a cheap suit, who was standing over him. Yuuri was sprawled out in front of a car stopped in the middle of the road, its headlights glaring malevolently at him. 

“…where am I?” he asked. Shock was bleeding through his system, making his limbs shake. Where was Viktor? Where was Mari? What had _happened?_

“You,” the man bent down to his level, “you’re not hurt?” he asked, disbelief coloring his voice. His accent was unfamiliar to Yuuri, and his head ached. 

“I don’t… think so,” said Yuuri. He put his hands down on the road and tried to stand, but immediately slipped on the pavement. The man bit out a curse and hauled him to his feet. He was shaking his head. 

“You jumped in front of my car, I _know_ I fucking hit you, how are you not _dead?_ ” he said, more confused now than angry. 

With his new vantage point, Yuuri realized that the road was a multi-lane highway. The man’s car was stopped in the outermost lane, hazard lights flashing, and traffic crawled by in the neighboring lanes. Another car behind them was also stopped, and various bystanders stood in an anxious semicircle, chatting in Russian. 

How fast had the car been going? Yuuri thought, noticing that traffic in the other direction was running at usual highway speed. 

“I, I don’t remember jumping,” he said cautiously. It seemed the safest thing. Everything from the license plates to the taste of the air to the very body language of the people around him made it clear that he was somewhere in Russia, however impossible that seemed. Admitting that he had no idea how he’d gotten there would just get him locked up.

“I’m fine, really,” Yuuri insisted when a few more people approached him. He patted his jacket and found his phone in the right-hand pocket. The sense of wrongness increased exponentially as he looked at it. Instead of the light, sleek, palm-sized cell phone that he’d had for almost two years, he was holding a veritable brick, encased in blue plastic. It was like something straight out of the early ‘tens. 

The bottom dropped out of his stomach. 

_There’s no way,_ he thought. Fingers moving automatically, he turned on the screen. _Thursday, December 5th,_ it said. No year, but he could guess from the phone case and the Team Japan jacket he was wearing. His vision went fuzzy at the edges, and he had to force his breathing to even out. _It’s just a dream,_ he told himself furiously. _A dream, starting with the crash, and I’m going to wake up and be just fine._

Yuuri pocketed his phone. _Pretend it’s all normal. Act out the dream._ “I’m not hurt, I swear, and I didn’t jump in front of your car,” he said to the driver. “I must have just slipped. I’m very grateful that you stopped in time.” 

The man was still eyeing him, obviously unconvinced, but he nodded. 

One of the bystanders professed to be a doctor, and she insisted on giving Yuuri an impromptu physical. He let her check him over for broken bones and symptoms of a concussion. Impatient to be out of the crowd, Yuuri suggested that he could do a triple jump to reassure her that he really was okay. The doctor frowned, but everyone else made space, and Yuuri jumped an off-ice triple toe loop on a clear patch of ground. The spectators clapped, and the doctor sighed and let him go. 

“You must be competing in the Final,” a young man said. He pointed to a large hotel a few hundred meters from the road. “You’re probably staying the in the official hotel, want us to walk you back?”

 _The final? Is this the Grand Prix Final in Sochi?_ Yuuri’s thoughts spun frantically.

“Sure, thanks,” he said. The man and his boyfriend introduced themselves, and walked back to the hotel with him. They recognized Yuuri once he had given them his name. The quieter of the two’s eyes lit up and he wished Yuuri luck. 

His boyfriend chuckled. “He’s a bit of a fan of yours,” he said. “Me, I’m here for Viktor Nikiforov. He’s _so_ pretty out there on the ice.”

“An inspiration to us all,” Yuuri agreed vaguely, ignoring the twinge of suppressed panic that rose up at Viktor’s name. They had reached the lobby, which was deserted except for the staff at the front desk. The bar was closed. 

Yuuri entered the elevator with the couple, and chose a floor at random, having no idea where his room was in this strange past-dream. _Why Sochi? What does it mean?_ He waved goodbye as his companions reached their floor, then took the elevator back to the lobby. 

He approached the desk. 

“Hi,” the concierge looked up. “Um, this is kind of an embarrassing question, but I’ve forgotten my room number.” She raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” said Yuuri. “Here, I have my key card, and some ID…” a search of his inside pocket turned up his passport and visa, thankfully. He handed everything over. The concierge sighed, entered his information, and then told him his room number in a flat tone. 

“Thank you,” he said. She turned back to the book she had been reading with another sigh. Doubtless he was not the strangest thing she had seen on night shift. 

Yuuri slunk back to the elevator and entered the correct floor, finally. Once in his room, he turned on the light and looked over his scattered things, spilling out of the half-open suitcase like fluff from a torn stuffed animal. He tried to let the sight take him back to the experiences of his younger self, but he just felt disconnected, like they were the possessions of a stranger. 

His skates were falling out of his bag, which was open and tipped over on its side. The guards had come loose, and the gleam of light on the blades caught his eye. 

Yuuri sank down cross-legged on the floor and pulled his skates into his lap, running his fingers over the smooth leather. It wasn’t anything like dream sensations, it felt real. These were the skates he’d competed in for nearly five years, at one time they had been as familiar as the press of his glasses on his face or the smell of the Ice Castle locker rooms. He had never dreamt a sense of touch so vividly. It almost made him wonder if… but no, it wasn’t possible. There were old legends about time travel in every culture, but those were just fairytales. It didn’t happen to real people. 

Another, darker, thought pulled at Yuuri. Alone in his room, he couldn’t distract himself from it. In the stories, time travelers always died. They died, were sent back, and given the choice to change history or not. Either way, the stories tended to end in sadness. If Yuuri had been sent back, that meant he had been killed on that now-future day in April in Japan. And if he was dead, then was Viktor? Yuuri shivered to think it, and gripped his skates tightly, not noticing as the blade of one cut him. Even if Viktor had survived the accident, they would be separated now. In no legend of time travel did the hero ever return to his own time. 

A yawning pit of darkness opened within him. _No Viktor._ It was unthinkable, had been his worst fear for as long as they were married. Longer, even. Yuuri curled up into fetal position, rubbing his hands over his eyes. He tasted blood and noticed his cut fingers for the first time, but did nothing to fix it. 

Yuuri wanted to scream, to sob and rage, but no sound came from his open mouth. Darkness enclosed him, trapping him. He fell over onto the hotel room floor, struggling to breathe through crushing grief. 

Some time passed, and Yuuri gradually grew aware that the burn of unshed tears in his eyes and throat had been replaced by the stinging in his hand. His face was tacky with dried blood, and he felt suddenly gross and uncomfortable. 

He sat up, letting the skates fall to the floor, and went to the bathroom to clean himself up. The face in the mirror gave him a shock, even though he had been feeling the differences of his younger body. He looked so young. _Was I ever really that baby-faced?_

Yuuri slapped a plaster on his cut finger. He shook himself and started taking stock of his things, automatically tidying up the room as he went in a habit formed through years of sharing space with Viktor, who was almost obsessively neat. He found a schedule and rink credentials for the 2015 Grand Prix Final in Sochi, Russia, which at least confirmed the date and location. Yuuri plugged in his phone to charge, still shocked at how big and clunky it was. It was just after 1 am. 

He sat down on the bed to take a closer look at the schedule, and realized with a jolt that the short program would happen in less than 24 hours. Assuming this actually was time travel and not some fever dream, he would be expected to skate. And he had no programs. 

Yuuri fell back and stared at the ceiling, considering his options. He could withdraw, cite an injury or a family emergency. _I could go home,_ Yuuri realized, _the typhoon hasn’t happened yet, I could see Dad, and Takeshi, and Lutz and Loop._ Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to rush into the arms of his lost family. But, then what? He would have no way to explain to them who he was now, or what had happened to him. He could still be with them, though. _Would that be enough? I had one skating career, do I need another?_

An older memory surfaced. _Vicchan! She’s still alive too!_ Yuuri was reaching for his phone before he had even finished the thought. 

Mari answered, voice rough with sleep. “Isn’t it the middle of the night for you?” she asked with no preamble. 

Yuuri fought back tears at her voice. Had Mari survived the future car accident? How would he ever find out? 

“Mari-nee? I had a dream, a nightmare,” 

She sighed. “Okay?” she said, more softly.

“It was about Vicchan. She, um, she had a seizure, and she died before we could get her to the vet.”

Mari inhaled sharply.

“Do you think you could get her a check-up today? Just in case? I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Mari was quiet for a moment, and Yuuri was afraid he’d been too obvious, that she would ask what was really going on.

Finally, she said, “To be honest, I was thinking we needed to take her in anyway. She’s not been eating well.”

“She hasn’t? Why didn’t you tell me!” said Yuuri, aghast. 

“We didn’t want you to worry during your competition! But if you think we should, I can take her to the vet this afternoon.”

“Please. I’ll win prize money, to pay for it,” added Yuuri, remembering as they talked the dire financial straits he and his family had been in before Viktor had become his coach. 

“No need, little brother, we can cover it,” Mari assured him. Yuuri was pretty sure that wasn’t true, but…

“But you’ll take her? You promise?” It was childish, but Yuuri couldn’t help himself. Now that it had occurred to him that he could, he desperately wanted to save someone, anyone. 

“Of course I promise,” Mari said, sincere. “Now, go back to sleep.”

“Okay. Thank you, Mari-nee.” He hung up the phone, and leaned back on the bed. _Vicchan._ The old photo had remained on their shrine even as it became crowded with the casualties of every disaster that had befallen their family since. He could still only barely remember what Vicchan looked like, mostly remembering the brush of her soft fur and her high-pitched bark. 

Yuuri’s fingers twitched; he felt restless. His family in Hasetsu would be safe for another fifteen years or so, and as badly as he wanted to see them, he had family here in Sochi, too. 

Viktor would be his past self, not Yuuri’s husband, but Yuuri knew just how badly younger Viktor had been suffering at this Grand Prix. It would be like swallowing shards of glass for Yuuri, but could he do it? Could he give Viktor the one entrancing night that had given him back his spark and inspired him see a life beyond skating? Yuuri almost had to try, he realized, to protect this Viktor even if they would never have the same relationship again. 

And there was Yura. It hurt just to think about him, even after all this time, but maybe Yuuri could save him the way he’d just tried to save Vicchan. To do that, Yuuri would have to befriend him again, and that meant skating in this competition. 

Well. He needed to practice, then. Yuuri sat up, and searched for rinks in the area. The competition rink would be closed down, but maybe he could bribe the owner of a smaller rink to let him in. 

A woman answered at the first place he called, sounding remarkably alert for the hour. 

“You want to skate?” she asked briskly. “Fine, but I hope you don’t mind sharing the ice with your fellow maniac.”

“What,” said Yuuri, but she refused to elaborate. 

“Get down here fast, I won’t stay awake much longer,” she said. Yuuri agreed to meet her and hung up, still puzzled. He hadn’t actually expected that to work. 

Skate bag packed, Yuuri walked back out through the empty lobby. The concierge glanced at him briefly but didn’t bother to say anything. 

The rink building was cool and dark, most of the lights in the front office left off. The owner let him in and pointed him towards the rink, stifling a yawn. Yuuri approached the boards cautiously, watching for the other skater. They spun into view, and Yuuri inhaled, his entire world crystallizing around the figure moving gracefully across the ice. 

It was Viktor. 

Viktor was skating Yuuri’s final program, the one he’d performed at the Beijing Olympics. He and Viktor had choreographed it together, and it was the crowning glory of Yuuri’s career. The two of them had poured into it their grief and their devotion, to the ice and to each other. That Viktor was skating it now, as a twenty-six-year old, years before it had first been performed, meant… Yuuri couldn’t breathe. 

Viktor finished the program in a spin that ended with him facing Yuuri. His eyes widened. 

Yuuri staggered onto the ice, heedless of his street shoes. 

“It’s you, Vityusha,” he gasped, and Viktor surged toward him. They came together under the harsh rink light, holding on so tightly that Yuuri’s ribs ached. 

They broke apart long enough to share a kiss, harsh and desperate. 

Yuuri was shaking so much that he could barely speak, and tears welled up in his eyes. Viktor, only slightly more composed, guided them back off the ice and onto a bench. Viktor’s arm was around him and Yuuri let his tears fall, muffling his sobs into Viktor’s shoulder. Viktor pressed his face to Yuuri’s hair, and Yuuri felt him crying too. 

A long moment passed while they both fought to catch their breath. Yuuri pulled back and brushed Viktor’s bangs out of his face.

“Vitya, oh Vitya, we died, didn’t we?” he said softly. 

Viktor nodded. He gripped Yuuri’s other hand tightly. 

“There was a lot of pain, then I woke up back here. I think we must have,” said Viktor. He rested their foreheads together and took a moment to steady himself. 

“Do you know if,” Viktor’s throat was constricted, and he had to start again. “Do you know if Mari survived?”

“I think–,“ Yuuri paused. “I think maybe she did. I talked to her, earlier, about Vicchan. The Mari that’s here, I mean. If she had died too, would she have come back with us?”

Viktor made a complicated expression, and Yuuri understood him. They had to be glad, if Mari hadn’t been killed in the car crash, but both of them knew all too well how much it hurt to lose someone. It would be hard on their little family, already reduced through disaster and disease, to lose more people, and they didn’t want Mari to go through that. 

Viktor hugged Yuuri closer. 

“I know it’s awful,” he whispered, “but I am so glad you’re here with me.”

“Of course, I am too,” said Yuuri fiercely. “I was going to go on without you, but it would have been, well,” he stopped. 

“You’re ahead of me,” Viktor said into his hair, sounding proud. “I had no plan, I was just skating your program, grieving.”

Yuuri turned around and kissed him again, slower this time, and deeper, reassuring himself that it was real. Yuuri held Viktor’s head in his hands when they broke apart, slightly out of breath.

“We won’t be apart again,” whispered Yuuri, conviction in every line of his body. “Death didn’t separate us. Nothing else will.” 

In response, Viktor pressed their lips together again, and held him for a long time. 

Yuuri had felt both his and Viktor’s heart rates settle into a steady rhythm before Viktor spoke again. 

“If this is real… then we’re stuck, we’ll have to perform,” he said cautiously.

“Right,” Yuuri sighed. “Programs. I don’t remember mine at all.”

Viktor took out his phone, suddenly businesslike.

“What were your qualifiers this year? Skate America?”

“And NHK.”

Viktor pulled up Yuuri’s short program and they leaned together to watch it. 

“Huh,” said Yuuri when it was done. “I was actually decent, for only knowing one quad.” Viktor flicked his cheek with a finger, but didn’t otherwise reprimand him. Yuuri could feel himself getting caught up in the details of skating and competing, and welcomed the distraction. He gripped Viktor’s arm and made him replay the video. 

After another re-watch, they slid onto the ice to practice for real. Yuuri glided to the center of the rink, taking a deep breath of chilly air. He took his opening pose and nodded at Viktor to start the music. 

It was less difficult than Yuuri had feared it would be. The program was ingrained in his muscle memory, and with Viktor calling out the elements for him he performed with relative ease. The seasoned competitor in him, who had medaled at two Olympics, chafed at the simplicity of the jumps and spins, but he and Viktor agreed that there wasn’t time to make major changes. 

“The things we could do if there was time, though,” said Viktor wistfully, after Yuuri’s third run-through. “The entry to your quad toe loop, for example, it’s much too long, it gives you time to second-guess yourself. And the jump always looks uncertain, probably you haven’t been landing it in practice much?”

Yuuri just shook his head. 

“I have no idea, Vitya. I completely blocked out most of that season, after.” Yuuri frowned, tapping his fingers on the boards. “I could add some twizzles there; it’d go with the music.”

They worked on the program until Yuuri could perform some facsimile of it without Viktor giving him hints from the sidelines, then Viktor regretfully called a halt. 

“We need to work on your free, too,” he said to Yuuri, tracing a lazy circle around him. 

“Let’s do your short instead, that’s only fair.”

They settled against the boards to watch Viktor’s short program. Yuuri hadn’t seen it in decades, and was struck by how hollow Viktor’s Skate Canada performance of it was. He didn’t say anything to him about it though, merely complimenting the especial artistry of the final step sequence. 

Viktor seemed deeply unsettled anyway, but when Yuuri prompted him he skated to center ice and began performing. 

The program flowed from his limbs with an easy, almost insulting grace. Viktor’s gaze was unfocused, however, seeing something eons away from Yuuri or the rink. He looked like a ghost. Horrified, Yuuri almost stopped the music, but he was more afraid Viktor would just keep skating without it. 

As soon as Viktor had taken his closing pose, Yuuri ran to him and wrapped him in a tight hug. 

“That was scary,” Yuuri said. 

Viktor, momentarily stunned, slowly returned Yuuri’s embrace. 

“How was it? I kind of blacked out…”

“Technically perfect, but terrifyingly empty. Vitya, I haven’t seen you retreat from me like that since, well,” Yuuri paused. 

In their three decades of marriage, they had kept the peace by not talking about certain things that were too close to both their hearts. The last time Yuuri had seen Viktor’s face like it had been during his skate was one of the things they didn’t talk about. _But if not now, when? We_ died.

“Since we lost Yura,” he finished. 

Viktor flinched away from him. 

“That bad?” he whispered. 

Yuuri nodded, miserable. A half-meter of ice now separated him and Viktor, and he ached to reach across the gap, but it was impossible. He couldn’t push Viktor on this. 

Viktor tilted his head back and stared at the rink ceiling, but he didn’t move farther away. 

“Okay,” he said after a long moment. “I think I know why I was like that, skating that program.” He looked Yuuri in the eye. “But I can’t talk about it right now. Can I tell you later?”

Yuuri breathed a sigh of relief.  
“Of course.”

Viktor reached out his hands, and Yuuri took them. They spun in a slow circle.

“You said the program was technically perfect?” asked Viktor after a while. 

“Yeah.”

Viktor blew out a breath, ruffling his bangs. 

“Obviously I was over-prepared for it. I don’t have to skate it again tonight, though?”

“If you don’t mind possibly taking a bit of a hit on presentation scores, then no.”

“Good. Let’s work on your long program!”

Viktor was suddenly animated. Yuuri let himself be pulled along with him into a few impromptu pair dance moves, then they reached the boards, picked up Viktor’s phone, and watched his free program. 

Yuuri had to suppress twinges of embarrassment the whole time, remembering despite himself his last two disastrous performances of this skate. Viktor noticed and tightened the arm he had wrapped around Yuuri’s shoulders, keeping him still. 

“Okay, Yuuri, muscle memory is your friend on this one, even more so than the other. The skates you’re thinking about haven’t happened, so your brain is operating on bad information.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow at him. Viktor gave him an encouraging shake. 

“Trust me. Just go skate it, and think as little as possible.”

Yuuri sighed, but pushed off from the boards. He stole a kiss from Viktor, for luck, and took his position on center ice. 

The skate went better than he anticipated, but there were a lot of small details to work out. Once again, they were both frustrated by the safe choreography, so different from anything Yuuri had used since becoming Viktor’s student. But with each run-through, Yuuri could feel the specter of his failed performances fading. 

Annoyed with the jumps especially, Yuuri started throwing in extra combinations, even ones this version of his body had never done before. Viktor scolded him, but there was a gleam in his eye that made it worth the risk.

Finally, the program was, if not perfect, at least not worse than his actual performance of it had been the first time around. 

Yuuri stifled a huge yawn as he returned to Viktor at the boards. 

“Stammi,” he said to Viktor, too tired now for full sentences. Viktor nodded.

“I actually tried to practice this one earlier, but I couldn’t face it without you.”

Yuuri leaned against him. 

“”M here now,” he said. Viktor rested his head on top of Yuuri’s. 

“I know,” he said softly, voice thick. They took a moment to breathe together, quiet except for the whirr of the rink fans.

Viktor queued up the video, and frowned with concentration as they watched it. 

“It’s so different from the duet, I wonder if I can go back.”

“You’ll have to, I can’t exactly join you on the ice during competition,” muttered Yuuri. 

After whining a bit more, Viktor took center ice and did his best to perform a single version of _Stammi Viccino._ It wasn’t terrible, his muscle memory helping him when he remembered to listen to it, but Yuuri could see the gaps where he forgot and reached for a second skater who wasn’t there, or downgraded a jump in anticipation of having to mirror it. For his part, Yuuri had to fight the urge to join him in the dance, his feet and hands twitching with suppressed movement.

Yuuri straightened up as Viktor drew his program to a close. How best to advise him? _I don’t envy him, having to skate _Stammi_ alone must be torture._

The final chords of the refrain echoed from the tinny cell phone speaker, one singer hauntingly alone instead of two voices raised in joy. _The music. Of course._

“Listen to the music again,” said Yuuri as Viktor skated up to him. “It’s different, too. Maybe if you focus on that it will help you find the right choreography.”

“That’s brilliant,” said Viktor, giving him a weary smile. He took the phone and replayed the video, listening dutifully. 

Viktor’s second rendition of the skate was much better, and his third nearly perfect. Yuuri was swaying with exhaustion by then, so they called it a night. 

“I still want to skate it with you,” Viktor said, arm in arm with Yuuri and tapping his fingers on Yuuri’s elbow. 

“Not until after you’ve performed it,” Yuuri repeated, tired but resolute. “No way you’ll ever remember the single version otherwise.” 

They entered the rink lobby, only to find the rink owner fast asleep on her desk. Viktor woke her gently and handed her a huge stack of cash. He and Yuuri apologized for the inconvenience while she blinked blearily at them. They left, still arguing about _Stammi Viccino._

As they passed the highway on their way back to the hotel, Yuuri couldn’t suppress a full-body shiver. 

“What’s wrong?” asked Viktor, still holding on to his arm. 

“Nothing.” Yuuri didn’t want to think about it. “Tell you later.”

Thankfully, they soon passed from the freezing cold night into the comparative warmth of the hotel. Viktor followed Yuuri up to his room, declining to visit his own. 

“Can’t I just stay with you?” he asked, giving Yuuri puppy-dog eyes. 

“I mean, yeah, but don’t you want to get your stuff?” 

“Not really.”

There was something there, some not-quite-right thing that Yuuri should probably get him to talk about, but it was too late to argue. Yuuri just shrugged. 

They got ready for bed, falling habitually into an easy rhythm. Viktor was strangely reluctant to enter the bathroom by himself, however. Yuuri shepherded them both into the shower, then leaned against the wall while Viktor took up all the space at the sink to brush his teeth. 

Once Yuuri had taken his turn at the sink, he found Viktor curled up on the bed, wearing a clean warm-up shirt and boxers. He looked diminished, somehow, old and tired despite being in a much younger body. Yuuri slipped into bed beside him and pulled the comforter over them both. The tension in his muscles started to unwind as their shared body heat warmed him.

“Yuuri?” Viktor’s voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible. Yuuri pressed closer.

“Yes?”

“Do you know where I woke up, after the crash?”

Yuuri shook his head. 

“I was laying on the floor of the bathroom in my hotel room. There were two empty pill bottles on the counter.”

Viktor was silent, while Yuuri processed this. Yuuri inhaled sharply.

“No,” he said, “no no no,” Yuuri felt tears catch in his throat. 

“Vitya,” he whispered, gripping Viktor’s arm and shoulder painfully tight. 

“I had thought about it, I remember thinking about it,” Viktor continued, his voice curiously bland. “But I had no idea that I was that close, that if things were even just a little different then I would have…”

Yuuri shifted so that their foreheads were pressed together, his arms enclosing Viktor completely. He searched for words, unsuccessfully. Viktor seemed to have run out of them, and they were both silent for a long while. 

“I was on the ground in front of a car on the highway we passed, earlier,” Yuuri said, finally. “The driver swore that he had hit me, that I jumped in front of him.”

Now it was Viktor’s turn to hold him too tight. 

“I’ve been avoiding thinking about it; I assumed he just misinterpreted it,” Yuuri continued. 

“Both of us, then?” said Viktor, still unusually quiet. “I didn’t realize a person had to die at both ends, to travel in time.”

“The legends really could be more informative,” said Yuuri. It wasn’t funny, but Viktor started to giggle hysterically, shaking silently at first but soon laughing outright. 

Tears welled up in Yuuri’s eyes, and he made a noise that might also have been a laugh but was much closer to a sob. He let himself weep into Viktor’s hair, holding Viktor as he sobbed in turn. 

Yuuri felt lighter, after they both had finally stopped hiccupping and the room was quiet again. His last reserves drained, he resettled them into a more comfortable position and kissed Viktor, once on each of his eyelids and once on his lips. Viktor smiled into the last kiss and nestled against Yuuri with a soft murmur. 

They drifted into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! please leave a comment if you feel so inspired, and come say hi on [tumblr](https://potyaislife.tumblr.com).
> 
> i have at least another chapter written and the rest plotted out, so updates will be forthcoming! maybe not _quickly_ , but they'll be there. 
> 
> also, is this fic adequately tagged for the material? this is the first time i've posted something darker, and i'm trying not to blindside folks who don't want to encounter certain things.
> 
> until next time!  
> –Cat


	2. Chapter 2

Yuuri came awake slowly, aware of Viktor’s comforting scent around him. He opened his eyes, but the pre-dawn gray of the room combined with his nearsightedness meant that he couldn’t see much. Viktor was awake already, propped up on one elbow and facing him.

“Good morning, my love,” he said.

Yuuri reached up and pulled him down into a kiss in answer. Viktor responded as enthusiastically as he always did, but as he shed layers of sleep like tissue paper, Yuuri became aware of the many not-quite-right signals he was sensing.

Viktor’s skin was too smooth under his caressing fingers. The bed was too soft, and the air was much too dry for the season.

Yuuri broke apart from Viktor with a wet sound, and, ignoring Viktor’s noise of protest, pushed himself into a sitting position, looking around the room that was definitely not their bedroom at home. Viktor sat back and handed him his glasses. 

He put them on and stared into the eyes of his decades-younger husband. Yuuri looked down at his own body–also young and in competition shape–and flexed his abs. Viktor snorted. 

Carefully, Yuuri reached out and traced his fingers over a bruise on his husband’s hip, the kind of deep purple one only got from falling out of a major jump. In their first years of marriage they had both carried bruises like this near-constantly, but neither of them had had one from skating for a decade or more. 

Yuuri collapsed back against the pillows.

“Not a dream, then,” he said. 

“No.” Viktor stretched out next to him, running his fingers over Yuuri’s shoulder. 

“At least,” Viktor continued, “I’ve never fallen asleep in a dream and woken up in the same dream. And this feels more real than any dream I’ve ever had.”

“That’s it then,” Yuuri could feel panic building between his ears. “we’re stuck here.”

“Apparently so.”

Viktor was silent for a moment. He changed the pattern of his fingers, tracing out the choreography to Stammi Viccino. 

“Do you want to skate, Yuuri? You don’t have to.”

“Do _you?_ Want to skate, I mean.”

Viktor hummed, and he began tapping out a faster dance. Eros, maybe?

“I am torn,” he said, finally. “I want another chance at the programs I was never able to finish. I want to see what I can do with this season, now that I am not so deeply depressed. But I also want to follow you to Japan and never leave your side again. If I keep skating, I might have to stay in Russia.”

The thought was intolerable. Yuuri smashed himself into Viktor’s chest. 

“No,” he said, voice muffled, “I’ll follow you to Russia instead. No need to be apart.”

Viktor–his arms had curled automatically around Yuuri and he was now tracing patterns on Yuuri’s back–just sighed.

“Don’t you have a university degree to finish?” he asked mildly.

Yuuri made a frustrated noise.

“Also, Yuuri,” Viktor was definitely teasing him now, “you never answered my first question.”

“Hmph.”

Yuuri uncoiled a little bit so that he could speak clearly. 

“I decided, before, that I was going to skate so that I could become friends with Yura again.”

Viktor’s hands went still.

“I guess, if you’re here, then I don’t need to anymore. I could just get to know him through you. But, well…” Why did Viktor always make him unpack his own decisions like this?

Reluctant, Yuuri continued, “I kind of want to skate anyway. For myself. Do better this time around, at everything.”

“Okay, Yuuri.” Viktor had found his voice again. “We’ll skate, then. For Yura. For ourselves.”

“Yeah.”

Yuuri coiled their fingers together over Viktor’s chest. 

“We’re not going to lose him again,” he promised. Viktor nodded back, eyes wide and vulnerable.

“We need do a plan, though,” said Yuuri after a moment.

Viktor sighed. 

“Yes. I have been thinking about this since I got here, but I still don’t have a better idea than to just watch over him. Be there to take care of him when he first starts to get sick.” 

Viktor placed a hand on Yuuri’s check. “It will be easier with you, he really admired–no, _admires you,_ ” he continued.

“Then we compete with him, hang out, and make sure he becomes family again. And we take better care of him than we did before.”

Viktor nodded firmly. 

After a moment, he sat up, pulling Yuuri with him. 

“In that case, we should start moving if we want to have extra practice time.”

They gathered their wits and dressed for the day, Viktor putting on the same sweat-stained warm-up clothes he’d been wearing yesterday. Yuuri frowned at him for it, but didn’t press the issue of Viktor’s refusal to enter his own hotel room. _Later._

It was early enough to still be full dark outside, at the height of Russia’s winter. Keeping a low profile, they snuck out of the hotel and into the rink next door. The public practice wouldn’t officially start for another few hours, so there was almost no one there. Yuuri and Viktor slid easily into their competition routines, stretching side by side and taking to the ice. 

They worked together, helping to refine each other’s programs they way they had the night before. Yuuri could feel his skating improving in leaps and bounds as he re-familiarized himself with the choreography. He itched to try out the more difficult jumps that weren’t yet in his arsenal, but Viktor warned him against it and, because of the risk of injury, he had to agree. 

For his part, Viktor was much more present and energetic than he had been last night. He managed a couple of stiff but not entirely soulless run-throughs of his short program, and one final skate that was full of feeling, though his hold on it was tenuous. Yuuri could see the fragility of Viktor’s artistic expression clear as day, but he thought the program would look more assured to anyone who didn’t know Viktor well. 

Yuuri was running through his free program, focused on the elements, when a near-collision with another skater caused him to stumble and lose the flow. He looked around, and noticed that the rink was suddenly much more crowded. Groups of coaches and skaters flocked around the rink, their chatter echoing in the high-ceilinged arena. With a start Yuuri noticed Celestino, standing at the boards and looking ridiculously young. He beckoned Yuuri over. 

The low-grade headache that had plagued Yuuri since he had first gone back in time intensified as he approached Celestino, throbbing behind his eyes. Celestino gave him a cheerful wave. 

“Ciao ciao Yuuri! You’re up early!”

“Yeah,” Yuuri sighed. “Couldn’t sleep, so I got here at about seven to start practicing.”

He looked around automatically for Viktor. His husband was at the opposite edge of the rink, working a bit of choreography over and over again. 

Celestino followed his gaze with curiosity. 

“Your skating out there looked quite different. Excellent, but different.” 

His tone wasn’t scolding, but Yuuri felt himself flinch a little from it anyway. It was strange, though, because Yuuri, or at least his mind, was older than Celestino now, and wasn’t intimidated by criticism from him. But another part of him was twenty-three and took such comments badly courtesy of the anxiety he had still been learning to manage. 

The disconnect felt viscerally upsetting, like he was separating into two people. Pain built in his skull, and he rubbed his forehead in frustration. Celestino was watching him, looking concerned.

 _What do I say, what do I say?_ Yuuri was a terrible liar, but the truth was out of the question. 

“I, uh, also went skating last night,” he began. 

Celestino’s worried frown deepened and he started to object, about to launch into a lecture about overwork that Yuuri had heard dozens of times. Yuuri waved him quiet. 

“No, listen,” he said.

Celestino glanced up, surprised. 

“I ran into Viktor there, Viktor NIkiforov?” he pointed a little helplessly. 

“I know who he is, yes,” said Celestino dryly. 

“We uh, worked on our programs together, and I made a few minor changes to the choreography. So. That’s why it’s different.”

Celestino’s eyebrows were halfway up his forehead by now. Yuuri watched him anxiously. It wasn’t a very convincing story, he knew, but he hoped Celestino would let it pass.

Celestino sighed, tugging slightly on his ponytail, which was a nervous tic of his that Yuuri had totally forgotten until this moment. Yuuri’s feeling of whiplash intensified, and it was all he could do to keep from doubling over in pain. He took several steadying breaths, which eased the discomfort only a little. 

Viktor, as if summoned telepathically, skated up to Yuuri and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Hi,” he panted, glancing at Celestino. 

Yuuri felt himself stand straighter with Viktor’s support. They hadn’t yet discussed how to handle the fact that everyone else in this time didn’t expect them to know each other at all, let alone act as if they were married. But Yuuri felt so much better with Viktor near that avoiding him in public clearly wasn’t an option. 

Viktor politely introduced himself to Celestino while Yuuri marshalled his thoughts. 

“How do the programs feel?” Viktor asked him. Yuuri could hear the unvoiced part of his question, too. _How are you?_

“Fine, good,” he said in answer to both questions. “I should run through the short program again for Ciao Ciao.”

“That would be great,” said Celestino. 

Viktor nodded, but his attention was caught by something over Celestino’s shoulder. Yuuri followed his gaze, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw Yakov. Viktor’s coach was yawning and shaking snow off his hat. He hadn’t spotted Viktor yet. 

Vitkor was tense at Yuuri’s side, tightly wound like a spring. He was clearly considering running for cover before Yakov saw him. Yuuri nudged him.  
“Go. Talk to him. I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”

Viktor paused for a moment, then nodded. He squeezed Yuuri’s shoulder and pushed off, skating over to his coach. 

“When did you two become so close?” asked Celestino, puzzled.

Yuuri shrugged. 

“Since yesterday, I guess,” he said. “Want to see my program?”

“Yes, yes, fine.” Celestino waved a hand. “It’s none of my business, anyway.”

Yuuri heaved a private sigh of relief and went to skate. 

–

As practice was wrapping up, Viktor rather desperately collected Yuuri and begged him to come out to lunch. 

“It’s with my former rinkmates,” he explained as they left the rink. “Yura will be there.”

“They’re your current rinkmates,” Yuuri pointed out. 

Viktor pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“See, this is exactly why I need you, to keep me from losing it in front of them.”

“We… could just tell them?” 

Viktor looked at him in blank shock, and Yuuri had to tug him out into the crosswalk as the light changed. 

“But, but, that would,” he stammered, “would they even believe us?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. It might be easier than lying, though.”

Viktor had a meditative look on his face. He had recovered from his surprise enough to retake the lead from Yuuri, grabbing his hand and guiding them through a right turn where Yuuri would have kept going straight. A passerby shot them a glare over her voluptuous scarf as they cut in front of her. Viktor started to speak again, and Yuuri’s attention shot back to him. 

“The truth has its own complications, though,” he said. “They will ask what happens to them in the future, and do you want to tell them? I don’t.”

“It would definitely hurt, but it might be better in the long run,” said Yuuri. 

“Had you thought to tell your family then, or Phichit?”

 _No. That would be unbearable._ “Point,” Yuuri sighed. 

Viktor stopped for moment to get his bearings, comparing the buildings around them with a map on his phone. Something else occurred to him.

“Plus,” he said slowly, “there is absolutely no way we want the public to find out this soon. We’d never get a moment’s peace.”

“Ugh, no, you’re right, you’re right.”

Viktor squeezed their linked hands in acknowledgement. 

“Oh! I think this is the place!”

They had arrived at a hip-but-expensive-looking café. It had a colorful sign painted in cursive Cyrillic on the window, and the inviting scent of coffee wafted out the door as a group of customers left. 

“Mila picked it out,” Viktor said at Yuuri’s skeptical look. “Apparently they make excellent lattes.”

“I’m lactose intolerant,” Yuuri grumbled, but without real annoyance. They entered and claimed a table by the window, even though the view outside was obscured by condensation on the glass. 

Viktor went to get them drinks, leaving Yuuri to wipe a patch of fog clear and watch the street for Mila and Yuri. A few minutes passed, during which Yuuri stared outside, his gaze unfocused. He was busy regretting the hours of sleep he’d lost when two figures with familiar dancers’ gaits passed into his field of view. 

When he recognized Yura, his heart skipped a beat and his throat felt tight. A bell dinged as the two of them entered the café, and Yuuri heard, for the first time in years, Yura’s voice as he complained to Mila about something. He was alive, wonderfully and impossibly alive and there in front of Yuuri. Yuuri wanted to wrap him up in a huge hug and never let him go. He wanted to let loose all the tears he hadn’t been able to cry when Yura had died. The grief he had carried for decades was a real and solid thing in his chest again, but overwhelming joy welled up inside him too. 

Viktor fell into the chair next to Yuuri, almost spilling their drinks. He gripped Yuuri’s hands tightly, and Yuuri felt him shaking. They locked gazes and took one deep breath together, a bulwark against their panic. Then Viktor painted a cheerful smile on his face and waved to Mila and Yura.

Somewhat in a daze, Yuuri let himself be introduced to people who had once been close friends, which made his headache twinge. He ignored it. They ordered food, and Viktor automatically picked something out for Yuuri, knowing that he hated ordering at restaurants. 

Mila watched them together, eyes sharp. 

“How long have you known each other?” she asked. 

“Well, we met properly for the first time yesterday, but we’ve been at the same competitions for years,” said Viktor. 

They were speaking English, theoretically for Yuuri’s benefit, but Yuuri suspected that Viktor really wanted the additional barrier to protect himself. in case anything he said seemed off. 

Yura, who was sitting across from Yuuri in the other window seat, leaned back in his chair. 

“You’re paying, right?” he shot at Viktor. 

Mila elbowed him. 

“Don’t be rude!” she hissed in Russian.

Viktor waved it away. 

“Of course, it’s my treat,” he said. This only seemed to make Yura angrier. 

Racking his brains to remember details of what, for him, were decades-old programs, Yuuri made stilted small talk about their skating, mostly with Mila, who seemed genuinely interested in his career and his move to the States. 

Except for a few blunt questions about his skating, Yura largely ignored him, which was as much a relief as anything. 

Lunch passed easily enough, with Viktor’s rinkmates ribbing him whenever they weren’t interrogating Yuuri. Yuuri was glad to see that the jokes brought color back to Viktor’s cheeks and gave him back some of the energy he had been missing. 

They left the café and walked back to the rink together, as Yura’s short program was that afternoon. 

“I think we like him, Vitya,” said Mila, jerking her head at Yuuri and linking her arm with Viktor’s. “Don’t we, Yura?”

Yura shrugged. 

“Sure, whatever,” he said. 

Yuuri grinned, looked, and saw an identical grin on Viktor’s face. 

“I’m so glad you approve of someone I was going to do anyway,” Viktor said serenely. 

Mila hooted, while Yura put his hands over his ears and spat curses. Yuuri blushed, but he still let Viktor take his hand and kiss it directly on the spot where his wedding ring should have been. _Soon,_ Viktor’s eyes promised him. 

Yuuri’s phone rang as they entered the rink. He glanced at the caller’s name. 

“It’s Mari,” he said to Viktor. Terrified understanding dawned on Viktor’s face, and they ducked into a side corridor. Hands shaking, Yuuri answered. 

“Mari?”

“Hey, little bro. You were right about Vicchan.”

He couldn’t tell from her tone if she was upset or not.

“Is she…”

“The vet ran a bunch of tests, and she came up positive for a liver disease that’s pretty serious.”

“Oh, no,” Yuuri could hardly breathe. 

“There are meds we’re trying, and there’s a chance she’ll recover. It’s not hopeless.”

“Just scary.”

“Yeah.” For the first time, Mari’s voice betrayed her worry, shaking a little on the last syllable. 

“Yuuri, if you hadn’t convinced me to take her in, I would have let it go for a few more months, and the vet said that it’s advanced enough that she could have had a seizure of another complication at any time.”

Yuuri caught his breath. 

“No, don’t worry now, we have her on meds, and we’re watching for it.” 

Mari exhaled, creating static over the connection. 

“I just wanted to say, if you have any more gut feelings like you did this morning, you should follow them. That’s all.”

“Thank you, Mari-nee.”

“Of course,”

“If anything changes, you’ll call me, right? Even if it’s right before I have to compete, I’d rather know.”

“Okay, Yuuri. We will.”

Yuuri thanked her again and hung up. 

“What news?” Viktor asked, his hands on Yuuri’s arms. Yuuri leaned into him, steadying himself. 

“Both good and bad, I guess,” he said, marshalling his thoughts. “They took Vicchan to the vet, found out that she has a liver disease, and got meds for it. But… the disease is pretty far along, so she still might not make it.”

“Oh, Yuuri.”

Viktor gave him a hug, and Yuuri let him, relaxing into the contact. 

As they left their nook to find seats in the stands, Yuuri steadied himself. He was elated at the fact that he’d already changed something of the past he remembered, but there were still weeks to go before he would find out if he’d actually saved Vicchan’s life. His stomach knotted in worry. Viktor rubbed soothing circles on his back and kept up inane chatter about the junior skaters they were watching until his tension eased. 

Yura had drawn a spot near the end. They watched him intently, Viktor with the focused expression he normally reserved for Yuuri’s programs. 

“I don’t remember that his skating was so _tame,_ ” said Viktor. 

“Well, he has no competition in juniors, he’s bored.”

“He could still be putting in more effort–there, look at that! No artistry at all.”

“I guess he’ll meet Lilia soon enough. And you, with your choreography.”

Viktor gave him a sideways look. 

“It’s no excuse to be so tepid.”

“Oh, right, for your last junior season you skated in a bondage costume.”

“At least it was–,” 

VIktor stopped talking as Yuri pulled off a difficult triple-triple combination and went into his final spin. 

The music ended, and they jumped up and started yelling congratulations, Viktor screaming “Bravo” despite all his criticism. They were loud enough that Yura looked their way. For a moment he was surprised, then he nodded at them and headed towards where Yakov waited at the boards. 

Naturally, he was given a sky-high score based on his strong technical elements. Yuuri and Viktor waited around to watch the last few competitors, then went to congratulate Yura on his performance. 

Yura protested that he didn’t want congratulations from them, and made it abundantly clear that he wanted to be left alone. 

“You’ll still come watch us this evening, though!” said Viktor brightly.

“Yeah, duh, I’m moving up next year, I need to know whose ass I’m going to kick,” Yura responded, then he shook them off and went to give interviews.

Viktor let him go, his smile dropping off his face once Yura’s back was turned. Not wanting to talk with so many people and cameras around, Yuuri led them back to the hotel. 

“It’s so hard, isn’t it? To see him?” Yuuri asked once they were alone. 

Viktor sighed, sounding utterly drained.

“Yeah.”

He leaned in to Yuuri’s hug. 

“Yakov, too,” said Viktor. “We had so much unresolved anger between us, and then he died and I mourned him… now I don’t know how to act.”

Yura’s death, less than two years from now, at the hands of drug-resistant pneumonia after a long series of training-related complications, had utterly fractured the group that had essentially been Viktor’s adopted family. Viktor had stopped speaking to Yakov, and in the intervening years before heart disease had taken his old coach, had seen him maybe twice. 

These were decades-old scars for Viktor, but being back in the past must have torn them wide open again. Yuuri knew that after seeing Yura again, _he_ was aching with unshed tears. 

“I think it is hardest to be around Yakov, actually,” Viktor said, speaking without looking at Yuuri. “Because I can’t stop thinking about how it was partly his fault, what happened to Yura.”

“We always blamed ourselves, too,” said Yuuri cautiously.

“Yes, but he _raised_ me, Yuuri. It is such a breach of trust, that he didn’t see what was happening until it was too late. I am still angry.” 

He sighed. “I didn’t think I was still so angry, not after all these years.”

Yuuri hummed thoughtfully. 

“I’m not sure any of us ever got over it,” he said, and Viktor nodded.

“That is true.”

Yuuri leaned back against the headboard, lost in memories. His throat tightened as he recalled the first thing he’d said to reporters after his Bejing Olympic free skate. _This is dedicated to Yuri Plisetsky, the strongest person I ever knew,_ he’d said, and he’d seen more than a few people tear up at that. The whole skating community had been affected, even years later. It had been something of a relief when Yuuri had retired and could escape the constant reminders of his loss. 

Yuuri felt Viktor’s hand in his, pulling him back to the present moment. 

“We’re here now, we can change it,” Vitkor whispered. “Even if it hurts, it will be worth it.”

“Oh, absolutely,” breathed Yuuri. 

He had been treating the time he’d spent with Yura thus far as moments stolen, a temporary dream that would soon be taken away. But now, for the first time, he felt real hope. Maybe he really would get the spend the rest of his life with Yura nearby, the way he’d always wanted. 

Viktor, who must have seen his resolve forming, smiled at him, bright and clear.

“We’ll be okay,” he said, and Yuuri nodded back. 

They had whiled away the afternoon watching the junior competition, and it was now almost time for Yuuri and Viktor’s short programs. They had to get ready, and as Yuuri looked around the room he had an unwelcome realization.

“Vitya?” he asked, “I can go pick up your things out of your hotel room for you? So you don’t have to go back.”

Viktor sighed deeply and shook his head. 

“No, I’ll come with you, my Yuuri. I should stop avoiding it.” 

Yuuri shrugged. 

“I’ve been avoiding the highway,” he said.

Viktor stood up and brushed invisible lint off his pants. 

“As long as you don’t leave me alone there, I’ll be fine.” He sighed again. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Viktor sounded stressed to the point of anger, and Yuuri almost insisted that he should stay back. But in the end he let Viktor pull him to his feet and they left together. 

Viktor’s hotel room was identical to Yuuri’s, except the layout was flipped. All of his costumes hung neatly in the closet, and the rest of his things were stacked on the desk or folded in his suitcase. The bathroom door was open, and the lights inside were still on. Despite the brightness, it looked menacing. 

Viktor, his arms full of costumes, gave the bathroom a nervous look, so Yuuri shoved him out of the way and marched forward. He found Viktor’s makeup bag and loaded everything on the crowded countertop into it, moving quickly. Likewise, he rescued Viktor’s shampoos and soaps from the shower. Yuuri gave the space one final pass and left, handing Viktor his armful of cosmetics. He left the two empty pill bottles where they were, seeing no point in doing otherwise.

Packing up the rest of the room was quick work, and soon they were back to the sanctuary of Yuuri’s hotel room. 

“The room really does look the same, though,” commented Yuuri as they entered. 

“I know,” said Viktor, his voice strained. 

He dropped his suitcase and sank down on the bed, head in his hands. Yuuri went to him immediately. 

“Sorry,” he breathed. 

Viktor made a noncommittal noise in acknowledgement. Yuuri rubbed circles on Viktor’s back until his breathing evened out. 

“It’s so unfair that we have to skate, after all this,” said Viktor finally, partially uncovering his face in order to look at Yuuri. 

“You don’t have to,” said Yuuri.

“I know, but we agreed.” Viktor sat back and stretched, his shoulders popping. “And anyway,” he added, “I want to, I just don’t want it to be right _now._ We should be able to claim an injury or something.”

“We probably could, if we went public,” said Yuuri, trying to keep the dread out of his voice. He did not want to go public. 

“No, please, that would be a shitshow,” said Viktor, and Yuuri sighed with relief. 

Viktor shook out his shoulders, sitting up straight. 

“It’s fine,” he said. “I can do this.”

“Good. Me too.”

Viktor turned and gave him a weary smile. 

They dressed, ate dinner, and made their way over to the rink. It was dark again, and Yuuri shivered violently with every gust of wind. Years of living in Hasetsu had eroded his cold tolerance. 

Having survived the crossing, they found the dressing room. Changing into his costume, Yuuri watched Viktor apply makeup as if he were putting on armor. Catching his eye, Viktor softened the look with a smile, and reached out to do Yuuri’s eyeliner for him. 

Then, it was time to leave the safety of the empty dressing room and face their coaches. 

“Yell if you need me, okay?” said Yuuri in a low voice. “I’ll cause a distraction so you don’t have to talk to him.”

“And the same to you,” said Viktor, squeezing his hand. 

They braced themselves and entered into the circle of stage lights that encompassed the rink side. At a call from Yakov, Viktor dropped Yuuri’s hand and left him with a forlorn backwards glance. Yuuri mustered a brave smile for him, and went to skate. 

It wasn’t until Celestino said, “What are you doing? You’re up now!” as he tried to leave the ice after warm-up that Yuuri realized he must be first in the order. Hurriedly, he shucked off his jacket and gulped down some water. 

In his final few seconds, Yuuri faced Celestino over the boards, but searched the crowd for Viktor’s face. It took longer than he’d hoped, but he found Viktor, who blew him a kiss as soon as they made eye contact. Yuuri grinned back and refocused on Celestino, who was giving him some sort of last-minute advice. 

Celestino obviously knew he hadn’t been paying attention, but didn’t call him on it. He merely patted Yuuri on the arm and said, “Just go. You’ve got this.”

Yuuri nodded and pushed off, taking his opening pose at center ice. Think as little as possible, he heard in Viktor’s voice, then the music started and he was off. 

When it was over, Yuuri sat in the kiss and cry, slightly stunned. Celestino was also oddly quiet. 

“I think the last combination could have been cleaner,” Yuuri offered, as he recovered his breath. 

“Really? That was the best I’ve ever seen anyone land it,” said Celestino, and he gave Yuuri a very strange look.

Yuuri shrugged. His technical scores came up, and for him they were abysmally low– _well, given the base elements I started with maybe is isn’t so bad…_ Celestino swept him up in a huge hug before he could finish processing. 

“A new personal best! That’s amazing, Yuuri!” he was saying. 

“It is?” muttered Yuuri, but he was quiet enough that Celestino didn’t hear him. 

His total score, when it came, was also a personal best, and Yuuri rubbed his eyes in shock. He couldn’t remember exactly, but he thought it was still lower than the score he’d gotten when he’d first competed with Eros. Yuuri sighed. He just wanted to talk to Viktor. There were several things he knew he could have done better, and it looked like Viktor was going to be the only person willing to nitpick his performance. 

Yuuri went through interviews in a daze, relying on the kinds of rote phrases he’d long since memorized. He broke free in plenty of time to watch Viktor, who was slated to skate last. Celestino stuck by him, so they leaned against the boards and watched the program together. 

Viktor looked uncharacteristically apprehensive as he listened to Yakov’s final advice. He exchanged a brief hug with his coach, then searched the crowd until he found Yuuri. Viktor skated over to him, ignoring the announcer pointedly calling his name, and gripped Yuuri’s hand. 

“You can do this,” Yuuri whispered in his ear. Viktor nodded once, then let him go and skated to center ice with seconds to spare. 

Yuuri heard confused chatter from the crowd around them, but he forcibly tuned it out to watch his husband’s program. Viktor did well, something of his grief bleeding through in a way that made the delicate program intensely emotional. The chill that had overcome him when he first practiced it was gone, and Yuuri breathed a sigh of relief and awe when he finished. Even after their decades together, Viktor’s skating had never lost its magic for Yuuri, and he’d skated this program masterfully. 

Celestino started to say something, but Yuuri ignored him and ran for the kiss and cry. Viktor skated straight off the ice and into his arms, muffling a sob into Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri held him tight, and he felt Viktor take one deep breath before he let Yuuri go and turned to Yakov.

Feeling that he was in the way, Yuuri retreated. Viktor’s score, when it was announced, was astronomical. Yuuri felt pride well up in him. This from the man who didn’t even want to skate a few hours ago. 

He brushed Celestino off and waited at the rink until Viktor was finished with his interviews. After what seemed like forever, Viktor and Yakov walked past him. Viktor caught his eye and reached out, tangling their fingers together. 

“Why are you with him? What is going on?” Yakov shot at Viktor in Russian, not looking at Yuuri. 

“Rude,” chastised Viktor lightly. “He’s my boyfriend, of course.”

“I can speak some Russian as well,” added Yuuri, deliberately playing up his accent more than was necessary. 

Squeezing Viktor’s hand, Yuuri thought fast. _Boyfriend?_ He was realizing, too late, that they still hadn’t discussed how to present their relationship to others. 

Yakov became a shade politer. 

“Yakov Feltsman,” he said, holding out a hand to Yuuri. 

Yuuri shook it, introducing himself as well. 

“Ah, my youngest skater has the same first name,” said Yakov, somewhat awkwardly. 

“I know, I’ve already met him.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Viktor had to drop Yuuri’s hand in order to muffle a snort. 

“Um, it’s, uh, fine?” Yuuri said. Was it always this awkward to talk to Yakov? _Yes, yes it was._

“When did you get a boyfriend?” Yakov asked Viktor, abandoning conversation with Yuuri. 

“Yesterday! We were both out about town and happened to meet,” said Viktor, flashing one of his most convincing fake smiles. Yuuri wondered if Yakov would still see through it. 

Yakov grunted. They had reached the hotel by now, so Yakov said something vague about ‘behaving responsibly’ and left them to head to the hotel bar. Yuuri sighed with relief and noticed Viktor doing the same thing. 

“Well, that could have gone better,” said Viktor as they entered the elevator. 

“I think our first meeting the first time around was almost as bad, actually,” mused Yuuri. “He never quite forgave me for taking you away from the ice, even if it was only temporary.”

“Mm, I think he understood better once we were both back in St. Petersburg and training at his rink,” said Viktor. “It’s just that with everything else happening so soon after that, there wasn’t enough time.”

Yuuri hummed noncommittally. 

He unlocked the room, checking his phone as he shed his winter gear. There were… a lot of messages from his family. Hands shaking slightly, he put his phone on speaker and pressed play on a voicemail from his dad. 

Viktor leaned against him as they listened to the shouted congratulations of both Yuuri’s parents, Mari, Minako, and the full ranks of the Nishigori clan. Yuuri wiped tears from the corners of his eyes as he scrolled through the rest of the messages, including one from his mom that informed him that VIcchan’s condition was still stable. 

“I’m going to visit them all as soon as this is over,” he said to Viktor, who was draped over him and reading over his shoulder. 

Viktor hugged him. 

“I may not be able to come with you, but–”

“I’ll call, set up facetime so you can see them,”

“Thank you, love,” sighed Viktor. “I miss them.”

“We’ll have you visit as soon as possible–after Euros maybe, and Worlds in is Tokyo this year, isn’t it, so definitely sometime around then–” 

Viktor hugged him again, so Yuuri cut off the flow of words and focused on hugging back, taking and giving what comfort he could from the warmth of Viktor's arms around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some things are revealed and questions are answered, but there's more still to go!
> 
> as always, come say hey and check out the art I reblog on my [tumblr](potyaislife.tumblr.com).
> 
> I'm hoping to get the next chapter up before break is over, but Life might intervene so I can't make promises. also thanks so much to everyone for reading and leaving such nice comments! I treasure every one. 
> 
> until next time!  
> Cat


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